


Blood and Tea

by LadyZaniahStrangeling



Series: Nurse!Annie [2]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: 500 words and more, Gen, hurt!Mitchell - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyZaniahStrangeling/pseuds/LadyZaniahStrangeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s still lying on the ground, staring up at the air, at where the dust-like particles of Lauren had swirled and twisted before vanishing – and Mitchell always hates this part, because this is generally where his afterlife crisis tends to sidle in to his mind with the force of a large truck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenmab_scherzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/81578994022/prompt-mitchell-twists-an-ankle-or-suffers-some-other#notes) as a prompt response.
> 
> Set in Season 1, after Lauren's death.

He’s still lying on the ground, staring up at the air, at where the dust-like particles of Lauren had swirled and twisted before vanishing – and Mitchell always hates this part, because this is generally where his afterlife crisis tends to sidle in to his mind with the force of a large truck.

Annie and George are still calling to him, still urging him – _C’mon, Mitchell, we gotta go! For God’s sake, if we don’t hurry, they’ll be coming after us!_

He wants to tell them that they already _are_ coming after them, but Herrick never rushes into anything that can’t be planned meticulously, and after this little embarrassment of letting three supernaturals slip through his gloved-hands (two of which the older vampire views as inferior; Mitchell knows that that is _really_ going to gnaw at Herrick’s clockwork mind), he’s going to be seeking some serious retribution.

He tries to stand.

He falls.

Mitchell lands back on his ass, his palm stinging as he throws it out to break his fall. It’s his damned ankle that’s given way; in their hurry and all the adrenaline-fuelled exhilaration, he must have twisted it without noticing. Now that he’s stopped though – _yeah_ , he winces. There’s a definite throbbing pain that’s lacing its way angrily around his ankle. Vampires heal quickly, it’s common knowledge, but even so, it’s a nasty sprain, and one that’s not going to heal for at least another twenty minutes – a time period that would be shorted to at least five with the medicine of fresh blood to ease the pain.

Mitchell attempts to stand again, and by the time he’s managed to lift himself halfway to a standing position, Annie and George are there, positioning his body of betrayal between them and lifting an arm around each of their shoulders. Together, they slowly hobble back home, their progress hampered by slight pauses as they glance back over their shoulders and Annie rent-a-ghost’s metres behind them to the corner they just passed in order to check that they still aren’t being followed. Mitchell bites down on his tongue, drawing blood – and for a few seconds his body is blissfully tricked by the sweet, warm, oozing throb, lapping it up like wine- and then here comes the few seconds of shuddery rejection when his stomach realises that it’s been deceived, here comes the stale, lifeless aftertaste that makes him want to vomit – to prevent himself from admitting that if Lauren knew where they live, so do the other vampires. There’s the chance that they may be slinking around the shadows of the pink house. Waiting. Watching.

But as they turn down the street, Mitchell can’t sense anything, other than the dead girl beside him and the stink of wolf from his best friend that clogs up his nostrils and wafts gently around the ingrained hate for the supernatural species that sleeps inside him like a dormant dragon. George unlocks the door and they’re the only three supernaturals in the street that Mitchell can sense.

Annie has been muttering concerns and worries under her breath regarding him for the whole slow shuffle home, acting as if his _whole leg_ is in need of amputation. Mitchell opens his mouth, tries to tell her that _actually, no, it’s_ fine, _really Annie, I can probably stand on it already, you don’t need to-_ But she simply bustles him across the threshold, directing George to help him to the couch while she drags a footstool over to him and plumps a cushion with no small amount of artistic flair, carefully raising his healing foot and resting it on the pillow.

 _Annie_ , he tries to begin, but she’s waving him off, sweeping into the kitchen like a summer storm and calling out over her shoulder _tea! You need tea. It_ always _made me feel better when I hurt myself when I was still alive_ – and Mitchell marvels at just how flippantly she has begun to throw those last few words around, leaving them hanging lightly in the air compared to the heavy bitterness with which he’s heard other ghosts mutter them.

Actually, what he needs is blood, and he forces himself to turn his head and raise his eyebrows at George, who’s added weight makes the couch sag slightly. His whole body thrums and pulses for it, yearns for it, _craves_ it. The smell of wet dog curdles his stomach. George shrugs his shoulders and grins back at him, muttering, _leave it, you know how she gets. It’s good for her to focus her energy on something_ , he adds after a gentle pause, tinkling noises from the kitchen filling the gap of silence.

What Mitchell needs is blood. The want is a heavy weight on his shoulders, it’s pressing on his chest tightly and it is the colour of rust. It dances in the forefront of his mind in the form of a woman swathed in crimson with hair of flames, pulling triggering memories from places he thought he’d locked away to play out behind his eyelids. There’s the smell of wet dog, the smell of tea, the smell of home. He’s glad that ghosts can’t be bitten, glad that there’s a reason _why_ vampires never drink from werewolves – only kill.

That makes them safe, even if it’s only for a little while.

He wants blood; blood is what he craves. But he has to settle for Annie’s love in the form of a teacup and a lumpy pile of blankets around his shoulders; for George’s concern in the shape of company on the couch and a telly full of daytime reruns.

Annie carefully adjusts the cushion placed under the raised ankle that has already healed, apologising whenever she unintentionally jostles his foot. He pretends to wince and complain, causing her mothering – and by default her selfless happiness – to intensify.

 _They aren’t bad things to settle for_ , Mitchell thinks, and smiles softly.


End file.
